


Man Vs. Wild Vs. Rodney

by coolbreeze1



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Survival
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-09
Updated: 2011-10-09
Packaged: 2017-10-24 10:57:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/262697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coolbreeze1/pseuds/coolbreeze1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rodney is stuck with an injured Sheppard offworld and must rely on everything he's learned from his team to get them both home alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Man Vs. Wild Vs. Rodney

**Author's Note:**

> Super thanks to everybetty for her awesome beta skills! This was written for Tridget for the Sheppard Summer H/C exchange.

"Is it just me, or are these mosquitoes doubling in size the farther we walk?"

"It's just you."

Rodney scowled at Sheppard's reply, then ducked as another monstrous bug made a beeline for his eye. He clamped his mouth shut before he let another unmanly squeal out that caused Sheppard to spin around and aim a gun at his face. Third time was _not_ a charm.

"Also," Sheppard continued, still walking along ahead of him, "I don't think they're mosquitoes. Is that even possible?"

"Are you blind? These things are the size of large birds." Rodney slapped the side of his neck at a creeping prickle on his skin, then grimaced when he felt a slimy crunch under his palm.

"We're on an alien planet, and mosquitoes are Earth insects. Is it even possible for the exact same species of insect to develop on two different planets?"

The path had been inclining ever so slightly, and Sheppard finally stopped at the top of the hill and turned to watch Rodney huff his way up. He had one hand on his hip, and his brow was furrowed in thought.

"I wouldn't put it past the Ancients to seed the most annoying insect ever invented on every planet in two galaxies."

Sheppard's eyebrows rose. "Invented? Now there's a thought…"

Today was apparently Philosophical Ponderings Day in Sheppard World. Rodney waved his hand around his head, half in response, half in a vain attempt at scattering the bugs collecting around his head. Sheppard apparently decided Rodney had caught up enough to him. He turned and continued along the path, his thumbs hanging on his belt.

 _All he needed was a stalk of grass to chew on, and maybe a cowboy hat._

Rodney stopped at the top of the hill and wiped dripping sweat from his face. The area around the gate on this world was thick rainforest, with at least a dozen small villages of interconnected tree huts, reminiscent of Kid World though not quite so high off the ground. They specialized in growing tropical fruits, specifically a long yellow one that bore uncanny similarities in both appearance and taste to Earth-grown bananas.

"Why are we doing this trade talks thing? It couldn't wait for Teyla to get better?"

"The talks are done—the agreements in place. We're just stopping in for a little face time with our friends. And this was our mission initially, thus our responsibility for the whole…face-time thing."

Rodney slapped his face, then dragged his fingers down his cheek, clearing it of any bugs. They were everywhere, completely oblivious to the spray he'd liberally doused himself with before coming. "So Teyla's sick—"

"And Torren."

"—and Ronon's not here because…?"

"Because Kanaan needed his help with something, and Teyla couldn't do it because she and Torren are sick."

"And I, of course, had nothing important going on whatsoever."

"Exactly," Sheppard answered, smiling. "It was the perfect storm of convenience and opportunity."

Rodney had almost caught up to him when he heard a rustling in the branches to his side, and enough time to think the mother of all mosquitoes was surely coming toward them and would it please wipe the smirk of Sheppard's face first, when a blur of white and brown tumbled onto the path. Sheppard was turning toward it, but the blur moved fast, wiping him off the path in the blink of an eye.

"Sheppard!" Rodney yelled, reaching automatically for the gun holstered at his side.

He ran to the edge of the path where Sheppard had disappeared into the brush and saw his friend tangled with another man and rolling through the trees and bushes. The ground descended in a slow decline off the path so that their rolling momentum seemed to gain speed the farther they went. With a curse, Rodney tore off after them.

He was at least thirty feet away when he saw the stranger lift a rock and slam it into the side of Sheppard's head. Rodney screamed, doing his best Warrior Ronon impression, and leveled his weapon. He ran harder toward them, but he knew he didn't trust his aim enough to shoot. From this vantage point, he'd probably shoot Sheppard as well. The two men rolled again, wrestling for Sheppard's handgun.

The echoing bang of the gun going off had Rodney dropping to the ground automatically. He hit hard, tasting sweat and dirt, and counted to three. When no more gunshots rang out, he lifted his head slowly. Sheppard was on top of the man and neither moved for a second. In slow motion, the stranger finally squirmed, grunting as he shoved Sheppard's body off of him. Rodney caught a glimpse of the colonel’s gun in the other man's hand, and then he was gone, running wild-eyed into the bushes and disappearing from sight.

Rodney crawled forward, his eyes trained on his friend. It took forever before Sheppard started to move, rolling to his side with a grunt. Rodney sighed in relief, exhaling a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"Sheppard?" he called out. He stopped a few feet short, not wanting to spook the man.

Sheppard groaned then slowly sat up. He stared straight ahead, blinking against the trail of blood dripping from a gash in his forehead and spilling over his eye.

"Are you okay?"

Stupid question, but Rodney felt compelled to ask.

"What?" Sheppard mumbled, sounding as dazed as he looked.

Rodney moved slowly until he was facing him, letting Sheppard see that it was his nice, longtime old friend and not some scary, crazed, tackling-out-of-nowhere villager. He holstered his gun then raised his hands as he approached.

"John?"

Sheppard stared at him, then slowly raised a hand to his forehead. He grimaced when he touched the gash, then stared at the red smear on his fingers. Rodney moved closer, resting a hand on Sheppard's shoulder. Sheppard didn't react, or respond to Rodney asking him if he was okay again. Just kept staring at his fingers, the blood trailing down his cheek and dripping off his jaw in a steady line.

Rodney ducked, tilting John's face toward him so he could get a look at his eyes. He was not that kind of doctor, but after five years on Team Sheppard, he'd learned a thing or two about field injuries. Sheppard stared back, his open eye looking a little glazed. The other eye fluttered open and closed as the cut continued to bleed above it. With a grunt, he wiped at the blood with his shoulder, succeeding more in smearing it all over the side of his face than cleaning it up, then rolled to his knees and tried to stand.

"Whoa! Not so fast, Batman," Rodney called out, but Sheppard swayed like a drunk anyway and tumbled back to the ground, landing on his butt.

"What?" he said—or more accurately, yelled. He blinked again, clawing at his ear on the unbloodied side of his face.

"You're bleeding," Rodney said. He had a first aid kit, with a bandage and tape. He dug into his vest at the same time as Sheppard dug into his, pulling out a gauze pad and a roll of that elastic gauze bandage. He was digging around for the tape when he saw Sheppard meticulously peeling the paper off of a Band-Aid.

"Don't think a Band-Aid's going to cut it," Rodney muttered, finally locating the tape in another pocket on his vest. One of these days, he needed to reorganize the contents of his vest in a way that made more sense to him and not the way some bureaucratic, paper-pusher writing first-aid manuals for stargate teams and—

The Band-Aid was sticking to Sheppard's fingers, and the man was scowling in frustration at his inability to untangle it. Definitely concussed. Rodney reached over and ripped the Band-Aid from his hands, then tossed it to the dirt. Sheppard moved automatically, almost falling over when he reached for the discarded bandage.

"I don't think a Band-Aid is going to stem the flow from that gash in your head," he said, pulling Sheppard back up to a sitting and relatively balanced position.

"What?" Sheppard asked again, too loud.

"Don't move. First aid time."

"I'm bleeding."

Rodney winced at the volume. "So are my ears. Stop yelling."

"What?"

 _Damn it,_ he sighed. The stranger who'd tackled him must have fired Sheppard's gun right next to his ear. As if the heat and bugs and humidity of Jungle World weren’t fun enough. Now he got to drag a deaf and concussed Sheppard back through it. He worked fast—another token to five years on Team Sheppard—bandaging the head wound and clean off most of the blood on Sheppard's face. He steadied his friend's face again and looked into his eyes. The pupils looked normal enough to him.

"But I'm not that kind of doctor," he muttered out loud. Sheppard frowned and opened his mouth, but Rodney laid a finger over his lips before he could say anything. "Never mind," he said loudly. "Can you walk?"

"Can't hear," Sheppard said again, digging one finger into his ear.

Rodney pulled his hand away. "Yes, amazingly enough, I figured that out. I credit my astute observation skills to that one."

Sheppard shook his head, then moaned, leaning forward and pressing one hand against the side of his head. Rodney sighed. Short sentences, single syllables. This was going to be a long hike back.

 

* * *

 

They were back on the trail, moving slowly but steadily, when Rodney heard a squawk of birds high up in the trees off to his left. A split second later, he saw wood chips splinter as something invisible took a bite out the tree Sheppard was just passing. Sheppard flinched, and then an invisible claw scraped past Rodney, spinning him around and flinging him to the ground.

He heard the gunshots a second later, but he was already on the ground. He stared, wide-eyed, as a bullet took another bite out of the tree right where his head had been, its sound following a split second later.

"Oh, crap," he wheezed. He dug at his front, searching for a bullet wound and waiting for the pain to slam into him. For his life to drain away from a gaping hole in his chest. Any second now…

A groan drew his attention away from his impending death, and he remembered his team leader. "Sheppard?" he whispered.

Still no pain. That was odd. He was sure death by sniper would have been much faster and much more painful. He lifted his head just enough to check himself for bullet wounds and blanched at the sight of his vest. A bullet had ripped through half the pockets, skittering along the armor plates beneath the nylon.

He rolled to his front, careful to keep his head down, and came face to face with Sheppard's boots. The man was lying on his stomach, not moving but breathing hard and loud enough for every predator within fifty miles to hear. Rodney army crawled to his side, cringing as three more gunshots rang out, peppering the trees and branches a few feet above them.

"Sheppard?"

But Sheppard had already had one gun go off right next to his ear and been slammed in the head with a rock. Not exactly a great combination for coherency. Rodney wormed his way next to him, shaking his shoulder.

"We have to move," he hissed.

Sheppard didn't react, and Rodney bit back the urge to scream curses at the universe. Not now. Later, for sure, but now was not the time. They were on the side of the path, the gunshots coming from higher ground. Strategically speaking, the higher ground was where you wanted to be, but the high ground here wasn't an option. What they needed was cover, and the ground sloping down just off the path was their best chance for that. Rodney scanned the area, glad for the thick trees and bushes. With a grunt, he started crawling forward, dragging Sheppard with him.

The ground grew steep fast, but the lower they went the better. Rodney sat up just enough to wrap both hands around Sheppard and slide forward on his butt, and a minute later, they dropped over a cliff into a shallow gully. It was no more than an eight-foot drop, but Rodney stifled a scream as his feet impacted, jarring his knee joints and crushing the vertebrae in his back.

"Son of a bitch!"

Sheppard lay silently on his back for a moment, looking pale and haggard, and then his face crumpled and he rolled onto his side with a moan.

"Shep—ow, knees, ankles, pain. Sheppard?" Rodney crawled over to him, rolling his friend onto his back. "What's wrong? Are you hit?"

Sheppard was panting, holding his right arm. Rodney glanced up, making sure they were out of sight of the snipers for the moment, then dragged his friend to the cliff wall and propped him up. Sheppard cried out at the movement, immediately leaning forward and cradling his arm against his side.

"What is it? Is it your arm? Shoulder?"

He pushed Sheppard back up against the wall, but as he pulled his hands back, he felt his heart catch in his chest. His left hand was covered in blood.

"Oh, crap. Oh, crap. Oh, crap." He fumbled with Sheppard’s vest, unzipping it and easing it off him. Sheppard was stiff, whimpering at Rodney's maneuverings. As he peeled the vest off him, he half expected to find a gaping wound in the other man's torso, so he stared dumbly for a few seconds when all he found under the vest was Sheppard's standard black t-shirt, whole and not bloody.

Rodney grabbed him by the jaw, dropping down until he was looking him right in the eyes. "Sheppard, you need to tell me where you're hurt. Is it your arm?" He ran his fingers along the side of the arm Sheppard was still holding stiffly but found nothing. He pulled Sheppard's other arm away, then lifted the right one slowly, grimacing at the pained groans this elicited in his friend.

"Sorry, I'm sorry," he murmured. Then he saw the blood—a solid swath from armpit to waist. He checked the arm, and was confused for a second when he saw no wounds there before he spotted the tiny knick in the t-shirt. He pulled the shirt up and swore at the small hole just below Sheppard's armpit, oozing blood.

He'd tossed Sheppard's vest to the side, but he grabbed it now, tearing through the pockets to find a pressure bandage.

"I have no freakin' clue how to treat an armpit wound, Sheppard," he said, ripping the packaging off the bandage. He slapped it against the wound, then mumbled an apology when Sheppard hissed and started to go boneless on him. He had just enough time to tie the bandage tight when he heard a voice above him. It wasn't directly above him, he didn't think, but it was close enough to send his heart ramming through his chest.

"Why the hell are the banana growers shooting at us? I thought they liked us," he muttered. He dug into the top pocket of his vest and pulled out a life-signs detector, then felt his heart stop when he spotted a half-dozen dots making their way toward the gully.

"We have to go, we have to go. I can't believe this. Sheppard?"

Sheppard was staring listlessly at the other side of the gully, tugging his shirt down, but at least he was conscious. Rodney squatted down next to him, pulling his arm over his shoulders and heaving him to his feet. Sheppard's legs folded immediately but a moment later, he made some attempt to support his own weight. Rodney heard the voices above him again, and the sound of branches and twigs breaking under foot at the group’s forward progress.

"We're moving now, John," he hissed into his friend's ear. "Just stay on your feet and keep going."

And with that, they took off, weaving their way through the gully at a stumbling run. Rodney's heart battered against his ribs and his stomach tried to twist in on itself, and all he could think about was what it would feel like to be shot in the back.

 

* * *

 

By the time he spotted the cave, Rodney's heart was beating three times his normal, too-high resting rate, and his imagination had moved on from death by bullet in the back to stroke. Sheppard hung from his shoulder, barely supporting his weight, and Rodney's fingers had long gone numb from trying to keep his grip.

He set his burden down, propping him up against the rocks. The gully had opened up a little, the sides less steep and climbable even with an injured teammate. The sounds of pursuit had died out, and the LSD showed no one close by. That didn't eliminate snipers, of course. Rodney glanced around for a tree branch, then shed his torn vest, draping it on the top and lifting it slowly.

"What you doing?" Sheppard mumbled, the level of his voice thankfully back to the normal range.

"Checking for snipers." Rodney lifted the vest higher, wiggling it a little. "Saw this on a movie once."

Sheppard grunted in reply and leaned his head back, letting his eyes slip closed.

"Don't sleep," Rodney hissed. He waved the branch again, waiting for gunshots to pelt his target. When nothing happened, he dropped his vest and slid back into it. They'd been on the run for at least thirty minutes, and they needed somewhere safe to hole up and regroup, take stock of injuries and supplies.

He squatted down, draping Sheppard's arm over his shoulders and hauling him to his feet. Sheppard groaned, his eyes staying stubbornly closed. They climbed the steep rocky hill, and while Sheppard tried to support some of his own weight, Rodney bore the brunt of it. By the time they reached the cave fifteen feet up, the muscles in his back were on fire and a fresh layer of sweat had soaked through his t-shirt.

"That was not fun," he moaned. He stumbled a few feet in and dropped Sheppard to the ground, wanting to collapse next to him. He stayed standing, checking their new situation. The cave was shallow—maybe ten feet deep and empty of animals. It was more of a dent in the rocks than a cave, offering much less protection than he'd initially hoped.

Sheppard lay on his side, unmoving and breathing shallowly. Rodney glanced around the bare cave and the rainforest outside, and the realization that he was alone with a seriously injured teammate on a hostile world hit him full force. He felt his knees go weak, and he grabbed the wall as he slowly sank to the ground. His breathing increased and icy rivulets of adrenaline raced through his gut. He dropped his head to his knees, feeling suddenly nauseous.

The key word in 'five years on Team Sheppard' was _team._ Not Rodney, all alone and in charge. Team. Maybe one teammate, maybe all three, but always someone else to pick up the burden or carry some of the weight. Sure, he handled Ancient disasters like most people tackled a grocery list, but surviving in the jungle with injuries and people shooting at them? That was not his area. He knew how to shoot back, but that was after Sheppard or Ronon or Teyla had figured out the enemies’ tactics and fighting abilities and how best to evade and get home again.

He lifted his head enough to glance at Sheppard next to him. He'd hung onto consciousness for most of their run, but now he was dead to the world. Rodney's breath hitched, and pain lanced through his chest. Oh God, he was having a heart attack. His breaths came out in wheezing gasps as he clawed at his ribs.

"What would Sheppard do?" he mumbled. "I'm the leader, I'm in charge. What would Sheppard do?" He glanced up again, poking the man in question in the shoulder. "What do I do now, Sheppard?"

The colonel didn't react, and Rodney's gut clenched. He dug his hand into the side of his neck, and it took several long, agonizing moments before he felt a pulse beat beneath his fingertips, rapid and weak.

"Breathe," he gasped. "Gotta breathe." He forced himself to inhale through his mouth and exhale through his nose, pressing a hand against his chest against the reflex to pant.

What would Sheppard do, stuck in a jungle with unknown soldiers shooting at them? As Rodney's breathing slowed down, so did the adrenaline pumping through him, letting his mind clear a little.

Goals. Sheppard was all about goals when it came to survival. They were stuck on a hostile world, possibly cut off from the gate with an injured teammate. They weren't due back in Atlantis for another seven hours, and it could be hours after that before Atlantis started to wonder where they were and checked in on them. Rodney dug his hands into his eyes. Too long—Sheppard had a gunshot wound in his armpit, which sounded kind of funny in a giggly, hysteria-inducing way until Rodney remembered that next to the armpit were ribs, lungs, heart, major blood vessels. He needed to get Sheppard home now.

"What do we have? What do we need?" he said out loud, hearing Sheppard's voice in his head. He cursed himself for leaving Sheppard's full vest behind and pulled out the remaining items in his torn-up one. Two of the bottom left pockets were ripped clean through and empty. The third was ripped but still had a pair of latex gloves, a nasal airway tube with instructions, and medical tape. Brilliant.

"If you stop breathing, I at least have a tube to shove up your nose, Sheppard," Rodney sniped, glaring at his unconscious teammate. He moved to the bottom right pockets, still mostly intact, trying to ignore his shaking hands. Power bars, a rain poncho, an emergency blanket, an epi pen, a small flashlight, two rubber bands, a book of waterproof matches, and the LSD joined the small pile at his knees. In the top pockets, he found the GDO, a small pair of binoculars, his radio, and a camera. Almost all of his medical supplies were gone. Sheppard had a knife at his belt that Rodney grabbed, and they both had canteens of water, but the villager had run off with one of the handguns, and Sheppard’s P90 was presumably still clipped to his vest, just waiting for their attackers to find.

"Damn it," he yelled, his voice bouncing off the stone walls of the cave. How could he be so stupid? He had his handgun, and the full clip of bullets already loaded, but little else in the way of weapons. No way to defend them, no way to treat Sheppard. He felt his chest tightening again, his ribs squeezing out the air and refusing to let fresh oxygen in. He closed his eyes, clenching his stomach muscles and burying the surge of panicked adrenaline.

"Think, McKay. Think," he mumbled. If their roles were reversed, Sheppard would… He shook his head. He had no idea what Sheppard would do. Ronon, on the other hand, never relied on their Earth-made gear, preferring to use whatever he could find around them. Rodney glanced at the small cave again, seeing a thin, salty crust on the limestone walls but little else. Outside, there was a whole forest of things, but how they could be of any use to him at the moment was a mystery.

Sheppard groaned, flailing a little and derailing all other thoughts Rodney had about their supplies. He scrambled over to him, resting a hand on his shoulder.

"John?"

Sheppard lifted his head but dropped it immediately with a whimpering moan. He curled tighter, his breathing picking up speed.

"What is it? What's wrong?" _Beyond the obvious gunshot wound in your armpit,_ he almost added.

"Rodney?" His voice was weak and slurred, and his eyes fluttered but never quite opened.

Rodney tightened his grip on Sheppard's shoulder, shaking him a little. "Talk to me, John. I'm way out of my element here."

"Hurts," he whispered.

"I know. You've been shot, but I'm going to get you back to the gate. You just need to hold on a little longer."

"Feel sick."

Rodney's gut immediately twisted. What would Ronon do? Or Teyla? He glanced outside again, studying the trees and bushes on the other side of the gully. The Satedan would go out there, make weapons out of rocks and branches. Teyla would scour the plants and flowers and come up with an entire natural pharmacy.

He pulled out the LSD, cursing his dependence on technology—not that he would ever admit that to anyone. No dots signaled an approaching enemy. With shaking legs, he stood up and peered out of the cave. A narrow path led from the cave mouth up to more level ground, thick with trees and bushes. Somewhere through that was the gate. Rodney glanced at his watch again, his heart sinking at the sight.

He had to make a decision, and he knew which one he had to make but the thought of it sent his heart rate skyrocketing. Sheppard would probably not survive waiting for Atlantis to come to them, so the only option left was for them to go to Atlantis, through a forest full of unseen dangers. He squeezed his hands into fists and stuck his chin out, glaring at the forest and ignoring the part of him that wanted to curl up next to Sheppard and give in to his panic. He took a deep breath, then turned back to his injured friend, steeling himself for the trek back to the gate.

 

* * *

 

Sheppard's scream startled a nest of birds in a tree stump next to them, sending them flocking into the sky. Rodney cringed at the sound, pausing to dig out his LSD. That was the third time Sheppard had cried out in pain, and sooner or later, one of their mysterious attackers was going to hear them.

"Still no one nearby," he whispered, "but you've got to stop screaming like that." He readjusted his grip, feeling warm blood squish between his fingers.

A swarm of black bugs hovered over them, flying into Rodney nose and ears. He shook his head, trying to dislodge them. The trail from the cave into the rainforest had narrowed, then eventually disappeared, and thick jungle growth grew up all around them. The trees blocked the sun, but the air was muggy and hot—a breeding ground for insects of all varieties to bite, sting, and crawl into all kinds of uncomfortable places.

"Stop," Sheppard huffed.

Rodney did, more out of surprise that Sheppard was coherent enough to ask for anything. His head was hanging forward, chin on chest, and his legs dragging more than stepping. The second Rodney stopped moving, Sheppard sagged, and Rodney almost fell over as he tried to set him down gently, leaning him against the now unoccupied tree stump.

"I know you're in pain, John, but we can't stop. We have to keep moving."

Sheppard's head lolled against the trunk of the tree, his skin white going on gray. A bruise had swollen up around the cut on his forehead from where he’d been slammed in the head with a rock, and the skin stretched bluish-purple. He was breathing hard and fast, and his face was covered in a slick of sweat. Rodney grimaced, scraping at the bugs buzzing around his face and feeling more than one squish under his hand. He waved his hand at the bugs flying around Sheppard's face, scattering them for no more than a second before they returned in force.

"I hate this world," he muttered.

"Why…attack us…"

Rodney shook his head then saw that Sheppard's eyes were still closed. "For kicks? I don't know."

"Banana…liked us…"

"Or pretended to like us. I'm adding this to my rule book: never trust a banana grower."

That elicited a small smile from Sheppard. He even managed to open his eyes to look around a little.

"We're heading back toward the gate, kind of," Rodney said. "Atlantis won't check in with us for hours and I’m not sure you— _we_ —can last out here that long."

Sheppard blinked, oblivious to the bugs crawling over his skin and Rodney's slight slip of the tongue. That was another thing Team Leader Sheppard did—never let you know your situation was as bad as it was. Always optimistic. A bug flew into his ear, and he slapped the side of his face in frustration.

"Hurts," Sheppard mumbled. "Chest…"

"You were shot," Rodney said. "In the armpit, of all places. The _armpit._ "

Sheppard groaned and his body shifted to side, sliding against the trunk and heading toward the ground. Rodney caught him, grabbing onto his arms and righting him. Sheppard whimpered again in pain, and spit flew from his lips as he panted.

Rodney glanced around the rainforest again, seeing nothing but a blur of green and occasional spots of color from flowers. How many times had Ronon or Teyla pointed out various trees and plants to him? Yesterday, he would have said too often, but today it was not often enough.

"I need to look around for something to help us," he said. Sheppard didn't move, either unconscious or too preoccupied by pain to respond.

With a sigh, Rodney stood and stretched out his lower back, blinking as sweat dripped into his eyes. He started moving in circles, widening the circumference with mathematical precision and studying the plants around him. Every few seconds, he glanced up at his LSD, making sure Sheppard’s dot was still there, bright and strong. Sheppard himself was quiet and invisible in the brush. The thought of his friend sitting in too much pain to move sent a surge of hatred and resentment through Rodney’s gut.

“Damn banana growers,” he hissed. “Stupid primitives with their superstitions and their weapons, and stupid missions that make us talk to them, because of stupid, stupid, stupid paper-pushers and bureaucrats and people who eat BANANAS!”

The last word came out as a scream, causing a bird to squawk and erupt out of a nearby bush. Rodney flinched, then glanced around, remembering he and Sheppard weren’t alone out here. The anger turned into a cold flush of fear and he scrambled for his LSD. Two dots blipped on the screen, and he felt his legs waver in relief.

“Stupid villagers,” he muttered. “I am sick and tired of living in a galaxy where people attack us and then stop to wonder if maybe we’re a friend.”

He started walking again, waving his arms at the bugs as he spoke and feeling the hatred seep up through his skin. He slapped his arm with a vicious swat at the insects crawling through the hairs and sweat.

“I hate bugs, and jungles, and heat.” He waved his arms around again, slashing at a branch overhead. “And giant leaves and spores and…and…”

He stopped, a memory clicking in his brain. He grabbed the branch again and pulled it down toward him. Large leaves grew in bunches, making them look like giant four-leaf clovers.

“I know these trees,” he said, half in wonder. He traced the branch back to its trunk, relief flooding through him at the sight of the black bark. Ronon had pointed the tree out to him, distinct because of its black bark and giant square leaves. Rodney remembered saying it looked like a tree of giant four-leaf clovers, and four-leaf clovers equaled good luck. Ronon had rolled his eyes, but now Rodney stared at the leaves, remembering the tree and the bark. He pulled out Sheppard’s knife and dug into the trunk, finding resin-soaked white tree flesh beneath.

He heard Ronon’s voice in his head, telling him about the times he’d chewed the bark when he’d been injured as a runner, or boiled pieces of it to make a tea if he’d had time. Rodney carved out handfuls of pieces and filled his pockets to bring back to Sheppard. When he was done, he scanned the LSD again and hiked his way back toward the single dot representing Sheppard.

He passed a bush of tall stems and jagged leaves, and his mind raced. Was that something good too? It was distinctive looking, but no memory came to mind of either Ronon or Teyla telling him about it. A few feet later, a leathery purple vine wrapped around a tree, but that one also meant nothing to him.

“Stupid plants. Botany’s about as scientific as medicine. And for the love of God, get the hell away from me!” he yelled at the swarm of flies hovering around his head. He slapped at them as he trudged through the woods, but for every one that he swatted, ten more appeared.

He checked the LSD again and corrected his course, cutting across a small clearing filled with wide yellow flowers. The smell assaulted him suddenly—that pungent odor that reminded him of a row of trees in college that bloomed in the springtime and smelled like rotting vegetables. He passed through the offensive clearing quickly, holding his breath as he went and sighing with relief when the smell retreated. Bugs swarmed in again, buzzing and zeroing in on his face.

“Damn it!” he hissed. “Damn bugs. Damn flowers. Damn…”

His voice trailed off. Flowers. Bugs. There’d been bugs around the flowers, like they’d found the smell as atrociously unbearable as Rodney. He stopped and walked back to the flowers, cringing at the smell but feeling the little insects disperse the closer he got. With a flash of inspiration, he cut off a dozen of the huge blossoms. The odor cast an invisible shield around him, scattering the insects in his path, and he grinned in triumph.

He checked his location one final time, then hurried back toward the spot he’d left Sheppard. As he rounded the corner, he saw Sheppard slumped against the tree trunk in the same position he’d been left. Rodney’s momentary triumph quailed at the sight and he covered the last few feet at a run. Sheppard was pale and too still, with dark circles under his eyes. Bugs crawled over him, through this hair, across his closed eye lids, all over the bloody bandage on his forehead, and into his nose and ears and mouth. Sheppard was oblivious to it all.

“John!” Rodney called out, dropping down at his friend’s side. He dropped the smelly flowers in Sheppard’s lap, and the insects crawling all over his friend buzzed away. Digging fingers into his neck, he waited for the thrum of a heartbeat and almost passed out in relief when he finally felt it weakly hammering beneath his fingertips.

“John, wake up,” he called out, shaking Sheppard’s shoulder. The momentary panic of finding his friend unconscious oozed out, replaced again with a burning anger toward the people who’d shot at them. Sheppard groaned, then whimpered as he moved, and Rodney realized he’d been gripping his arm tight enough that his knuckles ached.

“Sheppard, come on. Get your act together,” he ordered, letting some of his anger seep into his voice. He pressed his hand against Sheppard’s forehead, feeling cool, clammy skin. “That’s not good,” he muttered. It was too hot and muggy for skin to feel cold. Sheppard was still struggling to wake up, so Rodney took a moment to check the bandage in his armpit and grimaced that it was soaked through with blood already.

“Ss-stoppp,” Sheppard moaned, squeezing his eyes in pain.

“I found something for the pain,” Rodney said. He dug the bark out of his pocket. “A little trick Ronon taught me.

Sheppard opened bleary eyes and stared at him in confusion. Rodney held out the tree bark, but when Sheppard made no move to grab it, he finally poked his friend’s lips with it until he opened his mouth.

“Chew on this,” he said.

Sheppard didn’t, but he at least kept the thing in his mouth. Rodney sat down, arranging the bug-repellant flowers on his vest, then used the medical tape to attach them to Sheppard’s t-shirt.

“You shouldn’t… have,” Sheppard said around the pieces of wood in his mouth.

“Just chew your bark,” he snapped.

“Such… romantic.” But he started chewing, and his eyes scanned the forest around them with a little more awareness than before.

Ronon’s tree bark worked, or seemed to. Rodney waited a few long minutes, studying the LSD to make sure no one snuck up on them. When Sheppard made a failed attempt to stand, he figured that was good enough to start moving again. The colonel grunted and swayed, but it wasn’t the screams of pain from before, and within moments, they were slogging through the rainforest again.

 

* * *

 

They walked, kind of in the direction of the gate but not in a straight line. The forest grew thick around them, and Sheppard’s stumbling gait restricted them to a newly discovered weaving, narrow dirt path. It was hard enough for Rodney to not trip over every rock and errant branch; Sheppard could barely lift his feet, threatening to pull them both to the ground every few seconds.

They kept walking. And walking and walking. Rodney had no idea how long they traveled, but after a while, he stopped noticing the smell of the flowers keeping the insects back, stopped feeling the heat, and stopped hearing Sheppard’s gasps and whimpers of pain.

A patch of sky broke out ahead of him, drawing him out of his daze. He had the presence of mind to stop and check the LSD, but they were still the only two dots on the screen. He pushed forward, breaking through the brush and almost cried in relief at the sight of a small clearing, the ground churned up into rows for farming. At the other end, he saw a small tree hut on stilts that curved around a large tree.

“Thank God,” he breathed. He pushed forward faster, dragging Sheppard along. “Hello?”

A narrow stream of smoke curled up out of a fireplace along the outer wall, but the windows looked dark. There was a silence hanging around the house and field that made Rodney think the tree hut was abandoned. “And yet someone made a fire in this godforsaken heat,” he mumbled. He climbed the half dozen steps up into the house, calling out to anyone and getting no response. At the top, Sheppard sagged in his arms.

“Hang on, John. We’re taking a break.”

Sheppard replied by losing consciousness completely, his knees landing on the wood floor of the porch with a thud. With a heaving moan, Rodney dragged him through the door into a large, circular room, then over to the narrow bed on the opposite side. He sank onto the edge of the mattress a second later, gasping and breathing hard.

“You are heavier than you look, I hope you know. My back will never, ever forgive you.”

Sheppard’s lack of response got his heart racing again, and he turned around, falling to his knees at the side of the bed to check the colonel’s injuries, straighten his limbs out, and grimace at the bloody bandages. He wiped a hand across his face, clearing it of the beads of sweat, then lifted Sheppard’s arm to examine to bullet hole.

“The armpit,” he said, loudly this time and half hoping it would wake the other man up. “Of all the places you could have gotten shot, why’d it have to be the armpit? How the hell am I supposed to treat an armpit wound, Sheppard?” He thumped his knuckles against Sheppard’s chest and stared at the pale, haggard-looking face on the pillow. “They didn’t cover armpit wounds in first aid class.”

He peeled back the t-shirt and scowled at the blood coating his side. Some of it had dried, but the flakes stuck to his sweaty skin. Rodney felt his stomach clench at the site. “I do not do blood. I am not a doctor. I do not do injuries.”

But he had done injuries and blood and medical stuff for years. “This is all your fault,” he whispered. He stood up, stretching out his lower back, and looked out the window toward the thick forest. “I take it back,” he called out. “This is your fault! Stupid banana growers. Stupid primates with weapons. I don’t even like bananas.”

Sheppard’s chest rose and fell slowly. With his shirt peeled up, he looked like a splash of deathly white against the dark blankets on the bed. Rodney pinched the bridge of his nose, swallowing back the urge to scream. He was getting a headache from the heat, too.

“Water,” he mumbled. “Dehydrated.” And if he was dehydrated, Sheppard was seriously so. He drank a couple of long swallows, feeling another surge of anger at the lightness of the canteen. It was almost gone, and they still had hours before they’d make it back to Atlantis. Sheppard would need as much water as he could get in him, but without an IV, there was little Rodney could do. He fingered the torn pockets on his vest, tugging at the material. With a sudden screech, he ripped the loose material from the vest and threw it on the ground, then stomped on it for good measure. He finished by kicking an empty pail near the tree trunk at the center of the room and watched it sail with pinpoint accuracy out the window. It bounced on the railing outside, then dropped with a soft thump onto the mud below.

Rodney sucked in a deep breath, pushing back the frustration. He had no IV, or much in the way of medical supplies, but they were safe for now. They had a roof over their head. Maybe there were supplies in the house he could use. He walked over to Sheppard again, studying the wound. He needed to bandage it up, but the blood flow had stopped for now. He could take some time, figure out the best way to keep it clean.

He walked around the house, circling the tree trunk at the center. Whoever lived here had left in a hurry. Logs burned in the fireplace, hot and crackling though no longer spewing flames. A pot of water sat on a hook in the fireplace, steam curling up from the top. Another bucket sat empty on the ground next to it. He opened the top cupboards and dug through the meager supplies, discovering containers of sugar, flour, and salt. Two dozen alien bananas sat on top of the counters, and Rodney glared at them for a second before continuing his search. In the bottom cupboards, a half dozen bottles were filled with a clear liquid that he’d hoped was water, but the smell of alcohol burned the hairs in his nose when he took a whiff.

“Whoa,” he said. “Smells like Radek’s brand.” He stood and poked at the smaller jars on the shelves along the walls, their contents baffling him. Garlic hung in a net beneath one of the shelves, and a small branch full of dried out berries was tied to the window sill over the sink. He grabbed one of the berries, his stomach growling in hunger.

The berry crumbled in his hand, turning into a dark red powder. He sniffed it, then instantly gagged, coughed, and sneezed as he inhaled the powdery material. His eyes began to water, and cold sweat broke out along his upper lip.

“Holy shit!” he yelled, stumbling backward and wiping the powder on his pant legs. His eyes were still watering, and he wiped at his face in desperation. The innocuous little berry was anything but that. “Worse than that Indian restaurant Carson dragged me to in Denver,” he wheezed. He could feel it on his lips—a stinging peppery burn—even though he didn’t think he’d gotten any in his mouth at all.

A glance out the window showed a pump for water, and he grabbed the empty bucket near the fireplace and ran outside. It was only after he’d dunked his head under the stream of water that he finally got the pepper washed off his hands and his eyes stopped burning. He drank deeply from the spout after that, not caring what kind of bacteria he was ingesting.

He filled the bucket and lugged it back inside, intent now on focusing on Sheppard. He cleaned the colonel’s chest off, wiping off the dried blood and sweat with a towel he found on another shelf. He pressed it against the wound, then lowered Sheppard’s arm to keep the makeshift bandage in place. Sheppard moaned, sending wobbly relief coursing through Rodney’s veins.

“Damn it, John. Why’d you have to get shot when it’s just the two of us?” he asked when Sheppard finally peeled open blurry eyes.

“Wha’?” he whispered.

“Nothing, never mind. I hate this planet.”

Sheppard grinned a little, then his breath hitched when he took too deep a breath. He moaned and tried to roll over on his side, but Rodney pinned his shoulders to the bed.

“No, don’t move. You’re shot, remember? Hole in your armpit?”

Sheppard shuddered, letting his eyes slip closed. “Feel like…crap.”

“Me too,” Rodney retorted quickly, then bit his lip. “But probably not as bad as you. Does it hurt still?”

At Sheppard’s nod, he dug out another piece of Ronon’s lucky tree bark and urged Sheppard to chew on it. Whether it was working or not, Rodney had no idea, but it gave Sheppard something to concentrate on and that seemed to settle him. He blinked at the hut, gnawing on the piece of wood and making no move to sit up or ask what was happening.

Rodney sighed, digging out the LSD. For a split second, three dots appeared in the upper right corner, but they moved off again a minute later and disappeared.

“Focus, McKay,” he said out loud. Sheppard blinked at him but said nothing in reply, and Rodney stifled the panic that Sheppard’s lethargy was inciting. “I need to bandage Sheppard’s wound before it gets infected and he dies. Then I need to get to the gate before he dies anyway.” He thought of the three dots on the screen, their last known direction heading vaguely toward their escape route. “The gate will be guarded, of course, so I also need to find weapons or a distraction or something so that we can get to the DHD before we both die. Piece of cake,” he said, letting out a giggle. “Walk in the park. Just another day at the office.”

“Rod’ey,” Sheppard whispered. The tree bark was half hanging out of his mouth.

“Chew,” Rodney commanded.

“Wha’…happ’ning…”

“The banana growers are trying to kill us. They gave you a concussion, shot you in the armpit, and tried to shoot me in the chest, and now they are most likely guarding the gate home.”

“’Lantis…”

“Yes, Atlantis. Good plan, Sheppard.” The words snapped out of his mouth, frustration and panic erupting at once. Rodney banged a fist against his leg, his mind racing.

 _What would Sheppard do, if it was Rodney who was injured?_ He closed his eyes, breathing deeply and concentrating on the question. Sheppard would keep him calm, tell him everything was going to be fine.

 _And Ronon?_ the voice persisted. That was laughably easy to answer. Ronon would build weapons out of rocks and sticks and…

Rodney snapped his fingers and looked first at the cupboard, then the fireplace, then the Pepper Berries of Death. “Pepper bombs,” he whispered. He retrieved the bucket he’d filled with water, dumping the contents out the window. It was made of thin metal, and within seconds he’d poked a number of holes in the bottom with Sheppard’s knife. Working quickly, he covered the bottom with another towel from the shelf, then covered that with ashes from the fireplace. He placed a second towel on top, then paused.

“Manure,” he muttered. “There’s got to be some of that around here.” He ran back outside, circling the tree hut. Behind the water pump, he found a fenced off pen of small, sleeping animals vaguely pig-like in appearance. With disgust, he scooped up reeking feces, filling the bucket. He also grabbed the bucket he’d kicked out the window earlier, then returned inside. The water over the fireplace was still boiling, cutting out at least some time in the process.

“Wha’…doing?” Sheppard mumbled to him as he came inside and set the buckets down in front of the fireplace.

“Doing what Ronon would do, McKay style,” he quipped. He stacked the bucket of manure and ash on top of the empty one, then carefully poured the boiling water in, listening with satisfaction as it drained through the manure and ash, then finally the puncture holes at the bottom.

“What?” Sheppard asked.

“Smoke bombs, with enough of this horrible pepper stuff to make everyone on this planet cry.”

Sheppard blinked at him in confusion.

Rodney waved at the buckets. “Saltpeter. For the smoke bombs.”

Sheppard moaned, lifting one arm and throwing it across his eyes, then shivered. “Cold…” he breathed out.

“Cold? How the hell can you be cold in this…oh, crap.” He scrambled to his feet, then moved Sheppard’s arm back to the bed and pressed a hand against his forehead. His skin was burning hot, the temperature too high for it to be caused just by the weather.

“You’ve got a fever, John. Probably from the wound.” Suddenly remembering he needed to get fluids into Sheppard, he grabbed the almost empty canteen, dug a hand under the Colonel’s head to lift it up, and pressed the lip of the canteen to his mouth. “Drink.”

Sheppard did, kind of. Most of it seemed to dribble down the sides of his mouth. He choked at the end, and Rodney pulled the water away, his mind racing. Sheppard’s skin was feverishly hot, and the tree hut didn’t exactly have air conditioning. He ran back to the shelf of towels, grabbing a handful and running outside to the pump. A minute later, he was back inside, peeling Sheppard’s t-shirt back and spreading the wet towels over his forehead, chest, and sides. He grimaced at the whimpering groans Sheppard made in the process.

“You’ve got a fever,” he said, trying to soothe his friend writhing underneath him. “I think. I think it’s a fever. I’m not that kind of doctor.”

“C-c-c’ld,” Sheppard moaned back.

“What do I do? Fever means infection, right? From the armpit wound? I don’t know what to do.”

Sheppard shifted, pushing the towel on his chest off. Rodney wrestled his hands back and replaced it. “What would Ronon do? Nothing. Ronon would do nothing. No, Ronon would shoot something because he wouldn’t know what to do either. And then we’d let Teyla do it.”

It felt better to talk out loud, like Sheppard was listening to him and able to follow the conversation. Rodney watched his eyes flutter open then closed. He was losing the battle to stay conscious, but maybe that would be a good thing. He would stop trying to take the wet towels off his body.

“What would Teyla do?” he asked, staring out the window. He thought of Teyla, dressed in Atlantis gear but never losing that Athosian air. Rodney didn’t know how else to describe it. She may have learned how to use their technology and their weapons, but she didn’t replace it with her own knowledge of Athosian skills and way of living.

“Teyla does what Ronon does,” he said, blinking. Teyla had tried to teach Rodney and John her people’s skills as often as they had tried to each her their own. He rubbed his forehead, trying to remember. There was that one mission when Ronon had gotten sick and they’d gotten stuck offworld for a day. What was it she’d given him? Ronon’s fever had shot up, making him so weak that even Rodney could hold him down.

 _You must learn these roots and plants. There may come a time when you will need it and I will not be here to show you._ That’s what she had said to him, years ago. He’d shrugged it off then, because they were a team, and teams did things together. Why wouldn’t she be there to show him?

“I remember… Ronon was sick and she scraped some moss off a tree. What did she say about it? No, not moss. It looked like little tuffs of blue grass growing in clumps in the bark of the trees.”

He tried to dredge up the memory, but nothing came. “Damn it, Sheppard. You were better at remembering that stuff than me. What is it?”

Sheppard didn’t respond. His face was drawn and he was panting heavily. Fear pounded through Rodney’s chest, moving up to the base of his throat and making him feel like he was going to throw up. He shoved it back with a surge of anger. At Sheppard for being sick and hurt. At Teyla for not being there. At himself for not remembering what she’d tried to teach him.

He stood up abruptly and walked outside. A small garden patch grew along one wall of the tree hut, and the smell of mint, basil, and chives swam through his senses, making his stomach growl. Seeing nothing in the garden that he could use, he ventured into the woods, eating a powerbar and trying to recall exactly what Teyla had found to give to Ronon. The heat and humidity of the day had increased, and fifteen minutes later, he’d sweat through his shirt. He studied each tree, looking for the little tufts of grass until he finally found what he thought was the same thing.

He picked a handful of it then jogged back to the hut. Sheppard was still out of it, but he roused enough to eat the grass, frowning at the taste, before sliding back to sleep. There was little else Rodney could do for him at this point, so he turned his attention back to cooking saltpeter. The liquid had finally finished draining. He shifted the bucket of strained liquid into the fireplace and threw more logs on the embers, building the fire back up to roaring flames.

He needed the liquid to boil again, and then he’d add the alcohol. Thank God for fourth grade science experiments and his childhood obsession with pyrotechnics. He pulled out the bottles of alcohol from the cupboard and set them to the side, ready to add to the mixture.

He was outside, setting out possible supplies he’d collected from around the hut when he heard a door slam open. He jumped, spinning around to see Sheppard stumbling down the stairs in a panic. The bandage at his armpit was gone, and blood had soaked through his shirt, running freely down his side to his pants.

“Sheppard! What the hell!”

Sheppard hit the bottom of the stairs and fell forward. Rodney lurched toward him, dropping a shovel and rope he’d discovered and barely catching Sheppard under the arms. Sheppard was breathing fast and shaking, spit flying from his mouth, and Rodney moved around behind him, holding him up from face-planting.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

He could feel Sheppard’s heart hammering in his chest, and he dug into the pulse point at his neck. His heart rate fluttered too fast.

“Mc-McK-kay,” Sheppard stammered out.

“What is it? What’s going on?”

“S-ssome…thing…wrong…s-ssick…”

Rodney had just enough time to lean Sheppard forward before the colonel started gagging and throwing up. He was too weak to sit up on his own and he sank into Rodney’s grasp. Rodney turned his head away, swallowing fiercely against the urge to gag in sympathy. His mouth filled with saliva, and he buried his nose against his shoulder, blocking out the smell.

Sheppard had little to throw up, so it didn’t take very long. Rodney glanced at the pile at their knees and spotted the tufts of grass he’d fed him, barely digested.

“Wrong stuff,” he muttered. “Sorry, John. Damn it.”

Sheppard was still shaking, but not nearly as badly. Rodney lugged him to his feet and managed to get him back into the house and to the bed. Blood flowed freely from the wound, and Rodney wiped his hand off on his pants.

“ABC,” he whispered. “That’s what Carson said. ABC—airway, breathing, circulation. How is breathing different from airway? I can’t remember.” Sheppard was breathing fast, in time with his racing heart. “Circulation then. Blood. Stop the bleeding. I can do this.”

He stood up, heading back to the shelf of towels. He’d used almost all of them now. He grabbed two more and was turning back to the bed when he spotted the garlic hanging from the shelf. Garlic. He blinked, trivia from some history glass he’d taken maybe twenty years ago suddenly streaming through his mind. He saw a thin old man with round glasses reading from his notes, nattering on and on about World War I. Garlic—a natural antibacterial or antiseptic. Something like that. He remembered now that the old man had talked about it as a medicine, how it had been used for centuries, how it was used in World War I in the bandages to treat wounds, how Rodney had written all of this down under the general headline of “Barbaric Practices” on his paper, drawing little stick figures hanging from gallows next to it.

Garlic. He grabbed a couple of them and began chopping, then crushed them into one of the towels. He folded the towel over the garlic pieces and carried it carefully over to Sheppard. Sheppard looked like he was asleep, but he flinched when Rodney lifted his arm and stared at him with dull eyes. He bit his lip as Rodney pressed the garlic-sodden bandage to the small hole under his armpit.

“Smells…Italian…”

“I could go for some pizza right about now,” Rodney said. He tore the other towel into strips, then wrestled Sheppard upright to tie the bandage firmly in place.

“Wha’…cookin’?”

“Garlic, for your _armpit_ wound,” he said, emphasizing the word _armpit_ in the hopes of getting some reaction out of him. Sheppard grunted, then groaned as Rodney eased him back to the bed. “Good thing I’m a genius and remember everything.” He paused, flashing to the puked-up grass outside. “Well, almost everything.”

“Don’t feel…good,” Sheppard whispered.

“I know.” Rodney bit his lip. “How’s your stomach?”

Sheppard pressed a hand to his gut with a moan, which was answer enough for Rodney, but now that his mind was going, information came flooding back. The garden outside had mint leaves, which his Great Aunt Edith swore was the perfect remedy for stomach aches. He ran out, grabbing a few leaves and rinsing them off, then returned to Sheppard’s side, prodding the man’s lips with one of them.

Sheppard opened his mouth automatically, and Rodney’s stomach clenched at the instant trust. “Chew these,” he said. “Should help settle your stomach. It will at least take care of your puke breath.”

He sat back, watching Sheppard sink back onto the bed. It felt like they’d been in the tree hut for days, but when he checked his watch, he was shocked to see barely an hour and a half had passed. He checked the LSD again, sighing when it showed he and Sheppard as the only two living beings in the area.

* * *

 

When Sheppard was sleeping again, and no longer shaking or bleeding or otherwise acting like he was about to die, Rodney went back to work on his saltpeter.

“I could use a few extra hands here,” he said out loud. “Teyla’s and Ronon’s specifically.” The liquid in the pot had been boiling for at least a half an hour. He pulled it off the fire, then spread the last clean towel on the shelf over the empty bucket. He dumped the alcohol into the hot, manure-strained liquid, then strained this liquid into the new container. As he poured, he saw white crystals begin to collect at the top.

“Finally,” he huffed. The saltpeter and pepper smoke bombs had seemed like a great idea two hours earlier, but he’d forgotten how long it took to make from scratch. The fact that they could potentially be attacked by the banana growers again wasn’t helping matters. The straining cloth had to dry out now, which would take another hour at least.

Rodney stood, bouncing on his toes. He was hot and tired and hungry, but all of a sudden, he found he couldn’t sit still. How long would it take for their attackers to track them down? He was surprised they hadn’t come looking already. He checked the LSD again, but no one else was approaching them. Maybe they figured they didn’t need to waste time and energy looking for them, knowing they’d catch them at the gate eventually. If it was Rodney, he’d just camp out there and wait for them to show up. Or maybe they weren’t after them at all. That led to all kinds of other questions Rodney couldn’t even begin to answer, so he shoved them all to the side to concentrate on the tasks at hand.

Sheppard groaned and mumbled something about more mint. Rodney fed him two more leaves, then started pacing the room. As soon as the saltpeter was done, he’d build his smoke bombs and then they’d have to take off again. He eyed the pepper berries. They were strong, but there weren’t a lot of them. More would be useful.

“Sheppard,” he called out, rousing the other man. “I need to go look for some stuff. I won’t be gone long, okay?”

“Yeah,” Sheppard grunted, opening his eyes just enough to look at him before letting them slide closed again.

With a huff, Rodney stalked out of the tree hut and back into the woods. Pepper berries. He hadn’t seen any when they’d been trekking through the woods, but he hadn’t really been looking either. One of his bug repellant leaves fell off his shirt, the wilted petals dropping to the ground. The buzzing drone of the jungle enveloped him as he pressed into the thick forest growth.

“Need some more of those too,” he muttered. The other two flowers were still giving off their sickening smell. Rodney had tuned it out completely before, but now that he was thinking about it, he felt his gut twist in disgust.

He stuck to the dirt paths leading away from the hut, scouring the sides until his eyes felt like they were going to pop out of his skull. His head pounded from the heat and humidity, but eventually he found a bush of the pepper berries. He picked off a bunch of twigs with dried-out berries and wished he’d thought of grabbing a basket to carry them all in, but he’d left the hut in too much of a hurry.

With a flare of impatience, he folded up the bottom of his shirt and used it as a makeshift basket, carrying as many of the berry branches as he could. He took a different path back and was starting to panic that he’d gotten turned around in the woods when he spotted the ugliest purple flower he’d ever seen in his life.

“I know you!” he crowed, then snapped his jaw shut when the sound echoed through the woods around him. Ronon had regaled them with stories about this flower, how he’d used the sap to knock out a Wraith. Rodney had refused to believe him until Ronon had taken a handful of the buds and stalks back to Carson, and the doctor had gone giddy with excitement at the sedative properties of the sap.

“What would Ronon do?” he mused. “Pepper bombs. Poisoned darts.” Using one hand, he carefully dug up two of the flowers and set them on top of his pile of pepper berry twigs, his mind racing already. He had Sheppard’s knife, which he could use to carve out thin darts easily enough. He also had that stupid nasogastric tube in his vest pocket, the last remains of his medical supplies not torn away by the sniper bullet.

“Not so useless now,” he said. He walked faster through the woods, the urge to hurry and get this plan going overcoming his fatigue and fear. When he spotted the tree hut, he broke out into a run, pounding up the stairs and bursting through the door.

“Sheppard!” he called out.

Sheppard moaned but didn’t open his eyes, staying stubbornly asleep. Rodney thought he should probably try to keep him awake given his earlier violent encounter with a rock to the head, but he couldn’t do that and work on his weapons. Getting home took priority. He dropped his supplies on the counter and set to work on his darts. Another hour passed, but when he was done, he’d crafted a half dozen poison darts that he wrapped in the instructions for the nasal gastric tube, a dart blower using the tube taped to a relatively straight stick, and two fist-sized smoke bombs in the dirtied towels, filled with crushed pepper berries and fuses soaked in the remains of the alcohol.

“This better work,” he grumbled. He checked his watch, seeing that they still had four hours before Atlantis would think to check in with them. No banana growers had appeared on the LSD, reinforcing Rodney’s belief that all of them were going to be waiting to kill them at the gate.

He loaded his pockets with the darts and dart blower, then emptied the net bag of garlic and carefully set his bombs inside that.

“Smells…Tex Mex…” Sheppard mumbled.

Rodney moved toward him. “Pepper bombs,” he announced, triumphantly. Sheppard didn’t bother opening his eyes, and Rodney felt some of his confidence slip. He knelt down, pressing a hand against Sheppard’s forehead then checking the garlic bandage again, glad to see the bleeding had stopped.

“John?”

Sheppard sighed, peeling open his eyes to look at him. He looked horrible—all gray and sweaty, the effort of keeping his eyes open almost too much to handle. How the hell was Rodney supposed to get him to the gate like this? Maybe he shouldn’t even try. He could make a run for it on his own, get back to Atlantis and come back with the cavalry.

He shook his head. John would never do that, if their positions were reversed. And Ronon and Teyla would kill him for leaving a team member behind.

“We’re going home now, but I need to know what you’re feeling. We’ve got a long walk to the gate.”

Sheppard sighed again. “Tired,” he whispered. “Not sure…walk…”

“Where does it hurt?”

“Head,” he answered immediately. “And back…or shoulder… Hurts when I move…arm.”

“How’s your hearing?”

“What?”

He tapped Sheppard’s ear, the one he’d had trouble with before. “Your hearing?”

“Ringing,” Sheppard breathed out.

Rodney nodded, reaching a decision. Using Sheppard’s knife—and vowing to buy himself one of these as soon as he got back to Atlantis—he cut out a square of fabric from the sheet on the bed. He sat Sheppard up, tying the arm on the injured armpit side up into a sling. He gave Sheppard the last few sips of water from the canteen, then let him adjust to being upright while he refilled the canteens from the pump outside.

Within minutes, he returned. He clipped both canteens to the front of his belt, then struggled to get Sheppard standing. It look a lot of heaving grunts and groans, but eventually they were both upright, swaying in the center of the tree hut.

“McKay—”

“Don’t say it,” Rodney snapped. “If you’re going to say you can’t do this, or I should just leave you here, I don’t want to hear it.”

Maybe that’s what he was going to say; maybe it wasn’t. Sheppard never finished his sentence, and Rodney tugged him forward, out of the house and down the stairs. He kept the LSD in one hand as they walked, pinpointing the general direction of the gate and trudging back into the forest.

 

* * *

 

Their progress toward the gate seemed to stumble to a halt every few feet. They’d barely made it out of the hut when he stopped to grab the coil of rope at the foot of the stairs, forced to set Sheppard down on the ground to sling it over his shoulder then pick him up again to continue their dragging gait. In the woods, the path was narrow enough that he had to turn sideways, stepping slowly over the rough terrain and dragging the colonel along behind him.

Sheppard tried. He really did. Rodney couldn’t fault him for that. Sheppard’s head hung to his chest, and sweat soaked through his shirt, but the bandage held. Every few minutes, Rodney stopped to adjust his grip, or give Sheppard a piece of Good Luck tree bark or mint leaf to chew on, or check the LSD for signs of their attackers. The silence of the woods was oppressive, and the shadows were growing deeper as the sun began to set.

The only plus was the bugs. As afternoon slid into early evening, the bugs suddenly disappeared. The bug repellant flowers no longer smelled like anything, so Rodney stopped again to rip what was left of those off his and Sheppard’s shirts. He drank some of the water, and tried to get Sheppard to do the same, but the colonel groaned, turning his head away instead.

Their plodding course took them along a weaving path that led to the gate from the opposite direction they’d originally come, and the closer they got, the more Rodney’s heart started to pound. With Sheppard hanging off his shoulder, he was overcome with a sense of utter alone-ness. This wasn’t like other offworld crises, even ones that involved Ancient tech and him pulling a solution out of his ass at the last minute to get the team home.

This was…all his. Every element depended on him. His smoke bombs, his ability to distract and fight the guards, his memory of medical treatments and botany and primitive fighting techniques. His ability to carry Sheppard. All of it—his plan.

“I can do this,” he whispered into Sheppard’s hair. “Five years on your freakin’ team, I better have learned something.”

A flock of birds scattered into the sky ahead of his with a loud squawk and Rodney dropped to the ground. Ronon would know what those birds meant instinctively. Sheppard fell next to him and curled into a ball without a word, and Rodney wiped the sweat off his face with his sleeve. Birds—they’d been startled. Birds screeched and fled when they were startled, that’s what Ronon would have concluded.

At what, though? Something big. It had sent at least thirty birds into the sky, based on the brief glimpse Rodney had gotten of them and the echoing caws.

“The gate,” he breathed out. “Someone activated the gate.” He poked Sheppard in the shoulder. “We’re getting close.” He held a hand to his radio, half hoping Atlantis had dialed in earlier, but after several moments, nothing happened, and his brief flash of relief sank back into lonely despair. He pulled out the LSD, and this time at least a dozen dots appeared on the screen.

“We have to get off the trail,” he whispered, even though the people around the gate were far enough away that they wouldn’t have heard him. “Sheppard? Come on.”

He grabbed Sheppard’s shoulder and rolled him on his back. Sheppard’s face was scrunched up in pain, and Rodney noticed his breathing had worsened, sounding loud and rattling in the quiet woods.

“Shit, I took too long. There’s that window—that golden hour thing. Carson told us about it. Shit, shit, shit.”

He was digging under Sheppard’s arms, lifting him up and dragging him farther off the path and deeper into the woods. He propped him against a tree, and Sheppard flailed one hand weakly, patting Rodney’s arm. “S’okay,” he mumbled. “Did good.”

“No, don’t say that. Don’t give up.”

“Not…giving…” He threw his head back, unable to finish his sentence and clawed at his chest. “Something…wrong…harder to…breathe…”

“I know,” Rodney said. He shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to do.” He pulled out the LSD again and saw most of the dots were moving away, taking the path that led to the village—the one he and Sheppard had originally taken. “I didn’t think the banana growers traveled offworld very much.”

“Maybe…not banana…growers…”

That made more sense than the villagers suddenly turning against them. “Maybe I don’t hate the banana growers,” he muttered.

Sheppard coughed, a wet slapping sound that ended in a groan. Rodney shook himself out of his thoughts. Regardless of who was attacking them, their problem remained the same. Their goal was the same. He had to get Sheppard back to Atlantis. He glanced one last time at the LSD and saw four dots milling around the gate.

“Okay, I can do this. I can fight them. I’m…I’m trained for this.” He eased Sheppard back up to his feet and dragged him off the path, deeper into the woods. Spotting a large tree that had fallen over, he set Sheppard down at its base.

“Decoy,” he said. Sheppard was conscious but all of his concentration was directed inward on the battle to continue pulling in air. He didn’t respond, but Rodney didn’t really expect it.

He dug out the rain poncho, then grabbed a wide log with two branches splitting off the top. He draped the coat over the branches and stared at it. It didn’t really look like much. He fished through his vest pockets and pulled out the emergency blanket, balling it up and stuffing it into the hood of the poncho. With a head, it vaguely resembled the shape of a person.

He was ready. He took a deep breath, feeling fear quiver through his chest. “I can do this,” he said again. He knelt down next to Sheppard and shoved the handgun into his limp fingers. “Here’s the gun. If a bad guy comes, shoot him.”

Sheppard’s eyes were still closed, his jaw clenched tight. He shook his head. “No,” he grit out. “You need…gun…”

“If I shoot the gun off, every freak on this planet will come running straight for me. Shooting is the absolute last resort, got it? We have to do this as quietly as possible.”

Sheppard nodded, tightening his grip on the weapon slightly.

“I’ll be right back.”

Rodney was pleased with the way he sounded. Confidant, like he’d been born to fighting his way through alien planets to get to the gate. He checked his smoke bombs and made sure his matches were within easy reach. He stuck the darts and dart blower in his other pocket, making sure he could grab them without pricking a finger and knocking himself out—assuming that’s what the darts were going to do in the first place. He shoved back doubt at their efficacy and took another deep breath. A sense of panic in his stomach was making him want to throw up.

“I am Ronon,” he said, facing the woods. “I am Teyla and Sheppard. I am a warrior.”

He walked forward carefully, one foot in front of the other, conscious of every scraping step and snapping twig. Sweat dripped down his forehead and into his eyes.

“I will fight the guards and knock them out and then go back and get Sheppard. And Sheppard will be fine. And we will go through the gate, and I will be hailed as a hero, because I am a warrior. The most brilliant warrior in the entire universe, and… and I really need to stop talking out loud before someone hears me.”

He took another deep breath then snapped his jaw shut. Fear and adrenaline pumped through him, and the mannequin decoy in his hands shook. He saw a break in the trees ahead of him and he froze. The gate. It sat in a small clearing, and the dots on the LSD screen materialized into four large, rough looking men wandering back and forth across the clearing. Definitely not the banana growers.

He crept forward, planting his mannequin decoy against a small tree. The rope was still looped over his shoulder and across his chest, and he tied the mannequin to the narrow trunk then unwound the rope. He backed up, giving himself a good fifteen feet of space between his hiding spot and the decoy. He pulled out his smoke bombs and darts next, then set out a dozen matches.

“Here goes nothing,” he whispered. He paused a moment, feeling the oppressiveness of the woods. The jungle felt suddenly alive around him, and the sense that he was a lonely bug in its midst, about to be squashed out of existence, threatened to paralyze him. He flashed to Sheppard, alone somewhere behind him and struggling to breathe, and the image broke the spell.

“I am Team Sheppard,” he announced. He held the rope taut then hollered toward the clearing.

The guards snapped their heads in his direction and he hunkered down. He tugged on the rope, shaking the small tree and his decoy enough for the guards to spot it. With a shout, they started running toward him.

Rodney dropped the rope and grabbed a match, lighting it and holding it with shaking hands. The fuse erupted in flame and he tossed it toward the mannequin in the direct path of the guards. Time warped, at once moving too fast and not fast enough. He lit the other smoke bomb and threw it just as the first guard reached the tree line.

“Over there!” the man yelled, turning toward Rodney.

And then the first bomb went off. It blew up with a puff of smoke, filling the trees. Seconds later, he heard the first guard scream and gag, choking on the crushed pepper berries. By the time the other two guards realized what was happening, the second smoke bomb went off.

“It worked!” Rodney crowed, feeling a flash of triumph run through him. His eyes began to wander as some of the pepper blew toward him, cutting off his victory moment. He grabbed the darts and scampered back into the trees, away from the burning pepper smoke.

Two guards were down on the ground, and another one was crawling away. He pulled out his dart blower, tasting plastic and dirt as he blew out. He didn’t see the dart sailing through the smoke, nor did he have any conception of how far they would travel. He loaded another one, crawled forward and blew out again.

It took four more attempts before he finally saw the needle thin twig stick in the guard’s arm. The smoke and pepper were still floating in the air, and his eyes watered. He retreated again, resisting the urge to cough at the burning sensation in his throat and lungs. The guard he’d nicked with the dart stood up then swayed, stumbling a few feet before falling backward. He sat there, shaking his head, now oblivious to the smoke wafting over him, or the other two guards choking and gagging on the ground a few feet away.

He ran back, far enough away from his smoke bombs that he could wipe the tears from his eyes. He pulled out the LSD, seeing three dots. One of the dots was moving fast, not directly toward Sheppard’s dot but close enough that he’d spot him in a few minutes.

The fourth man had not run into the smoke bombs like the other three. Rodney started running, keeping the LSD in front of him and watching the fourth guard get close to Sheppard. When the two were within feet from each other, the moving dot stopped, and he imagined the guard staring at Sheppard in surprise, then glee. Adrenaline fueled Rodney’s muscles as he ran, but it was tempered by a helplessness that he was too late. After all of his work and planning, Sheppard would die.

He was close to Sheppard’s position when he heard a gunshot go off, the sound banging through the trees so loud that Rodney dropped instinctively to the ground. He crawled forward through the trees and saw the fourth guard holding a long machete knife over his head. Rodney’s gun was smoking, but even as he watched, it dropped from Sheppard’s grasp.

The guard stared at Sheppard for another long moment, then dropped his knife. The rest of him went boneless and he slid to the ground, the look of utter shock in his eyes and face frozen by death. Rodney scrambled forward when Sheppard slid sideways.

“John!” he called out.

Sheppard’s lips were turning a dusky blue color, and his chest jerked as he tried to breathe. The wheezing sound coming from him told Rodney that at least some air was still getting in, but clearly it was not enough. Sheppard stared at him wide-eyed, open fear on his face.

Rodney didn’t wait. He dropped his remaining darts and threw Sheppard over his shoulder, adrenaline giving him super-human strength. They were out of time. The other attackers would have heard the gunshot, and Rodney figured he had minutes to get Sheppard through the gate and to medical help before it was too late anyway.

Hardly noticing the weight of Sheppard’s limp body across his shoulders, Rodney surged forward, through the trees and across the clearing to the DHD. As the gate exploded to life, he heard shouts behind him, but he leapt forward without glancing back, his grip on his teammate tight as the cold wave of the wormhole enveloped him and carried him swiftly to the Alpha site.

 

* * *

 

Sheppard was propped up in the infirmary bed, one arm in a sling and pillows padding his back and under his arm. His head had lolled to the side and he was snoring lightly. Rodney tiptoed forward, attracted by an X-ray picture of ribs, shoulder blade, and humerus on the monitor next to the bed. A bright white triangular spot against the shoulder blade drew his attention, and he leaned forward, studying it.

“Hey.”

He jumped at the sound of Sheppard’s raspy voice next to him, his heart beating frantically. He turned to the colonel, scowling at him and feeling his cheeks burn at his reaction.

“Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” he hissed.

Sheppard smiled. He looked exhausted but not in pain—a testament to the pharmacy of drugs running through his system since Rodney had dragged him home the day before.

“That the bullet from your _armpit_ wound?” he asked, and now that they were home safe, and Sheppard had made it through surgery, and there was no doubt they’d both survive, he was going to run with this whole “armpit” thing for as long as it would carry him.

Sheppard rolled his eyes and sighed. “Not the whole bullet—it was a ricochet of a fragment. Entered the side of my _chest,_ skipped along my rib, and then embedded itself in front of my shoulder blade. I got lucky, actually, that the bullet didn’t veer off in some weird trajectory.”

“So what’s with the tube hanging out of your chest?”

Sheppard scowled. “Stop staring at me.” He squirmed in the bed with a grimace.

Rodney turned back to the photo, the grin faltering a little. He would tease Sheppard endlessly about the armpit wound, but staring at the bullet fragment on the X-ray was sobering. He could just make out the faint outline of the lung and minute cracks in the ribs. The surgery to get the bullet out had caused almost as much damage as the bullet itself.

On the table next to the bed, a small clear plastic container held a piece of metal. Rodney held it up, shaking it. “This the bullet fragment?”

“Yeah,” Sheppard huffed. “Why do they always think I want to keep the bullets that shoot me?”

Rodney shrugged, but he had kept the first bullet that he’d been shot with. It was in drawer somewhere in his lab. A memento to his bravery. Or something. He wasn’t sure why he’d kept it, but it had seemed like something significant enough to keep.

“We figure out why the banana growers hate us?”

Rodney set the container back on the table and pulled up a chair. “Lorne sent a couple of Marine squads through to figure out what was going on. Turns out it wasn’t the banana growers, as I suspected.”

“You did not.”

“I did so—later, anyway, when I saw they were using the gate. Turns out it was some group of scavengers that moves from planet to planet pilfering for supplies. They’d hit Banana World a few hours before we showed up and taken most of the villages around the gate hostage. By the time we waltzed through, they were taking potshots at all the villagers they hadn’t caught in their initial roundup.”

“Thought we were escaped villagers?”

“Yep. The banana growers still like us. In fact, they now love us. The Marines chased the scavengers back through the gate, then freed the villages.” Rodney slunk down in his chair, leaning his head back on his hands and throwing his feet up on the edge of Sheppard’s bed. “We’ve been regaled with many bananas. The cooks are going nuts right now trying to figure out how to use all of the fruit before it goes bad.”

“John, you are awake!”

Rodney and Sheppard twisted around as Teyla walked up to them. She looked a little pale still from her own bout of illness, but her eyes lit up at Sheppard’s smile. She grabbed his hand, squeezing his fingers. Behind her, Ronon came in carrying two chairs he’d snagged from the waiting room area.

“Hey, guys,” Sheppard said.

It took a few minutes for them to settle down in the chairs around Sheppard’s bed. Rodney sat up, dropping his feet to the ground and couldn’t help grinning. His team—all four members—together like they should be.

“Oh, I just remembered,” he said, standing up. He dug a hand into his pocket and pulled out Sheppard’s knife. “I wanted to return your knife. It came in very handy, by the way. I need to get one of those.”

“I’ve been trying to get you to get one of those for years now, but you were afraid of cutting off a finger.”

“I was not. And you’ve never once suggested I get a huge machete knife.”

“Let me see that,” Ronon asked, reaching over the bed to grab Sheppard’s combat knife.

“That is hardly a machete,” Sheppard said, frowning.

“Rodney, we have read your mission report but we would like to hear the story for ourselves.”

“Really?” he squeaked. At Ronon and Teyla’s nod, he sat down and cleared his throat, running them through the events of the day before. Sheppard threw in a few comments but listened just as intently as the others, and Rodney realized that while the colonel had been with him the whole time, he’d been too out of it to realize everything that had taken place.

Teyla was thrilled at Rodney’s use of the garlic, mint, tree bark, and smelly flowers, and Rodney left out completely his failed attempt at finding the grass for upset stomachs. Ronon grinned like a schoolboy when he heard about the poisoned darts, and he and Sheppard grilled him on how he’d made the smoke bombs, exchanging mischievous glances after his third rundown of the necessary materials and instructions. All three of them grew quiet, listening intently as Rodney described the final battle and run for the gate.

“You did good, McKay,” Ronon finally said.

Rodney sat up, taking in the nods and smiles from his team. “Yes, yes I did.”

“What are you guys jabbering on about in here?” Jennifer asked, appearing from around the corner. She had a half-eaten banana in one hand and was pulling her stethoscope out with the other.

“McKay’s just telling us how he saved the day yesterday,” Sheppard answered.

Jennifer’s face brightened, and Rodney felt his heart thud in his chest. “That was pretty amazing. I’m not sure I would have been that clearheaded in the same situation.”

“Sure you would have,” Rodney said, buoyed again when Jennifer’s face brightened at his words.

Sheppard yawned then, shifting in the bed again. Jennifer finished the last bite of fruit and then waved her hands at them. “Off you go. Colonel Sheppard’s only one day out of surgery and needs his rest.”

They stood, grumbling, letting the chairs scrape across the floor. Ronon grabbed one of the waiting room chairs, ignoring Teyla and Jennifer’s pleas to grab the other one while he was at it. As Rodney stood, he felt a hand on his wrist, and he glanced down to see Sheppard had grabbed a hold of him.

“Rodney,” he said, his voice quiet. “You really did do good out there. Thanks.”

The look of utter sincerity on his face was a little unnerving. Rodney was not used to such complete honesty from his teammate. Had to be the drugs. Sheppard’s pupils were a little wide, and his eyelids were starting to droop down in fatigue. Rodney smiled, his mind going blank at how to respond. He glanced around, but everyone else was busy moving the chairs around.

“I am a genius,” he finally stammered out. “After five years on your team, I better have learned something useful.”

Sheppard grinned, relaxing back onto the bed. By the time Jennifer returned to check on him, he had drifted off to sleep again. Rodney grabbed the knife Ronon had left on the edge of the bed and set it down next to the bullet fragment on the table. He squeezed Jennifer’s arm as she slid past him with her stethoscope ready, and then turned to his waiting teammates.

“Let’s go eat some bananas!”

END

 **Prompt:** Sheppard and McKay offworld - Sheppard sick or injured and McKay having to dredge up info he has learned from Ronon or Teyla over the years on natural remedies to look after him.


End file.
